


if i could.

by orphan_account



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Anxiety, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Hand & Finger Kink, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Trans Male Character, it's rlly not that sexy just light-hearted and funny bc i said so, only tagged bc it's vaguely relevant to shimura's musings here, tagged bc sexy stuff and hatori doesn't have a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 22:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18926248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Shimura learns what his brand of intimacy should be: masculine and free.





	if i could.

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a brief and likely ooc piece of my favorite ship to de-stress from finals. as most of my things are, it's heavily au-based, the details of which i won't go into; hopefully i provided enough context for it to be comprehensible to anybody not actively involved. 
> 
> tw for: brief mention of paternal absence, implications of self-harm ( they're not focused on )

Shimura never before had the pleasure of distinguishing honest tenderness from the fingers of a man. Kind, gentle women were a rarity in his life, but they had at least existed: the occasional teacher, young coworkers ( before they inevitably grew disinterested in him, all apparently for similar reasons behind their feeble excuses or sudden could shoulders ), the singular and very short-lived girlfriend during his freshman year of high school. Sparing, but palpable. 

 

In terms of men, he could name no such instance. His father may have fulfilled the role if he could’ve been bothered to stay and provide, but he hadn’t, and Shimura preferred not to fixate on such things. There was no use to pondering something he’d never gain the ability to know. And so he didn’t ( or, at least, tried his damnedest not to ).

 

Hatori’s hands were small, thick, softened by sporadic bouts of lotion but still visibly austere. His fingers were short and pudgy, attentive and charming. His grip was surprisingly strong, presumably from decades of handshakes and from the burden of some arduous, repetitive task. The surface of his skin was pitted with intermittent freckles and sparse discoloration, either some form of scarring or burn. He was married, but his left ring finger possessed no band. 

 

Shimura had decided that his hands reflected his essence well within the first few minutes of properly acquainting himself with him. They were steady but clumsy, impregnable but gentle, all a juxtaposition that simply  _ worked _ . He regularly accentuated his words or expressed his silence with broad motions of his hands, so Shimura’s observant eyes came to know them quite thoroughly.

 

Hatori was unabashed about his physicality, a trait that Shimura had never before seen but one that he’d come to adore; he’d yearned for the touch of tender masculinity perhaps since the day he was born. Every brush against his elbow, every nudge to his forearm, every scrape of those sturdy fingertips against the back of his hand filled him with a deep ache. If Shimura was good at anything, it was suppression, so concealing such sentiment hadn’t been the issue: it was the fact that, for the first time in his life, he longed for  _ more _ of what induced his anxious sweats and clammy hands. Sometimes he wanted it so badly he assumed it would end up killing him. The number of nights he’d simply lied awake, pining and guilty and  _ longing _ , was frankly humiliating. Commuting to work the next morning only to be greeted with Hatori’s grinning teeth, so oblivious to his inner turmoil, convinced him for a brief period that he no longer required copious cups of coffee to function.

 

Hatori divorced his wife following years of stagnation, filling Shimura with a sick hope and ridding him of an even sicker jealousy. It proved to be that pair of marred, benign hands that eventually taught him masculine intimacy.

 

Shimura had always been a relatively vocal lover. While it was true that he had precious little sexual experience, really nothing even mentionable, he’d ceased embarrassing himself long ago with his involuntary noise while indulging his own fantasies. He’d grown to simply allow the sighs and whines and harsh breathing as they came. Now, however, he was again overcome with that old boyish humiliation, attempting to swallow Hatori’s lips and tongue the best he could to mask his unstoppable keening. It was shameful, really: Hatori’s tentative, soft palms drifted lightly over his sides through his shirt, little else even happening save for their locked kissing. 

 

“Hey. Are you trying to eat me?” Hatori’s voice was low, outwardly calm. The tail of his words even uplifted into a chuckle, but Shimura could perceive the anxiety beneath his tone. He felt he had to amend that anxiety immediately.

 

“N-No! No.” He withdrew accordingly, swallowing thickly. He was all but pinned to the couch underneath Hatori’s weight, his shirt unbuttoned generously down to the point of his sternum, but no farther. He was already sweating and struggling to keep the hoods of arousal from his eyelids; he must seem a blushing virgin. Ironically, it is that very thought that brings the flush to his high cheekbones. “I’m… I’m good. I’m really good. Are you?”

 

“Yes, but that’s not what I asked.” Hatori appears to calm, lips tilting into an easy smile. Shimura is reassured at once, even feeling somewhat silly; all Hatori would currently want from him would be honesty. Of course. That doesn’t stop the heat from coursing up to his ears and down to his chest.

 

“I don’t want to be too loud. I’ve always been… noisy.”

 

Hatori  _ giggles _ , the corners of his eyes curling fondly. Shimura feels his forearm coming to rest across his chest, supporting much of Hatori’s upper body weight. “I’d be much,  _ much _ more nervous if you weren’t. I’d think I wasn’t doing a very good job. Besides, I like it when the people I’m with are loud. Think it’s sexy.”

 

His words are blatantly dipped in humor and Shimura can’t help but spare a faint grin of his own; he was far more comfortable than he’d ever imagined he’d be, yet still just as aroused as ever, the notion making him slightly giddy. He decides, then, that this is what sex should always be like. Fun, devoid of stress, full of caresses and love. “Okay, okay. If you kiss me again, I promise I won’t eat you this time.”

 

Hatori laughs that nasally, leisurely laugh he exhibits solely when he’s deeply unconcerned, and Shimura is unable to ignore its current undertone of heat. He swallows again, glancing up to his partner in a manner far too loving for his own good, before Hatori captures his lips. This time, he sighs and murmurs into Hatori’s mouth, lethargically enjoying the headiness that comes with their bodies idly sliding up against one another. There is no rush, no pressure to end the affair quicker than it needs to be ended.

 

“I’m gonna take the rest of your shirt off,” Hatori breathes, his full lips the slightest bit swollen. Shimura momentarily curses his persistent alertness for rendering him privy to such insignificant, impactful details: he hardly stood any semblance of chance if this was all he was going to see combined with how little it had taken to arouse him so terribly. He only prays that Hatori can’t feel the needy swell of his cock in his slacks, but he likely can, given the flushness of their bodies. 

 

Shimura merely gulps, nodding his consent. He is stiff as Hatori’s practical fingers pop the remainder of his shirt buttons, moving to drape it distractedly over the back of the couch. He was so consumed with lust and giddy nervousness that, until now, he’d completely neglected the affront his nude body had to offer.

 

Perhaps Hatori feels him rigidify even further beneath his stomach. Regardless, he reflexively trains his gaze downwards, his eyes wide with both shock and concern. It swiftly fades once he eyes what Shimura deemed so repulsive. 

 

“Oh, don’t be scared. It’s fine. Jeez, Shimura, please don’t be scared. That’s not what I was looking at. I was just afraid I’d hurt you somehow,” Hatori soothes, planting a calming hand to the other man’s bare upper arm. Despite himself, Shimura’s body slackens. 

 

“I’m sorry,” the older man manages. 

 

“Don’t be. Just promise you won’t be upset or apologize when you see mine.” He smiles again, but there is a partial despondency to it this time. Shimura wordlessly kisses him to lift the burden from them both and Hatori’s palms roam, unaffected, over his torso.

 

Shimura’s breath hitches as Hatori’s fingers brush over his chest, experimentally prodding a nipple. He whines, a high, breathy noise in his throat. Hatori devours the encouragement and decisively digs his blunt nails gently into the flesh there, goading what was definitely a moan. He kisses the older man’s forehead appreciatively.

 

Shimura wants to speak, wants to insist that he return the favor somehow, but his voice is paralyzed and his fingers knot helplessly in the fabric of Hatori’s shirt. The other man seems wholly content, spoiling Shimura’s chest and nipples with attention as he pants and whines, eyes squeezed tightly shut. By now, his dick is inarguably wet in its fabric prison and he’s certain Hatori can feel it, but it’s surprisingly difficult to bring himself to properly care. Besides, if Hatori does notice, he mentions nothing.

 

Once he’s had his fill, Hatori rears back up onto his forearms. He hurriedly sits up, straddling Shimura’s hips, and Shimura knows that he can no longer hide even if he wished to. He reflexively grips Hatori’s ample thighs in his large hands as the man undoes the fastenings of his own shirt, adopting a new, shy coyness to his brown eyes. “Let’s get to the actual fun stuff now, huh?”

 

Without thinking, Shimura nods vigorously. Hatori laughs in response, looking for all the world as if he could care less about anything at all. 

 

“You know, I’ve actually been pretty nervous this whole time. I mean, obviously, I’ve done this shit before, having two kids and all, but it’s still been a while. Especially since I’ve been with a man. Also, there’s something you should probably know. I haven’t told you this whole time because there’d be another company scandal bigger than my whole nepotism or bastard shit if anything ever got out. Not that I didn’t trust you! Obviously, I do. I mean, we’ve been friends for a few years. It just never really came up in conversation and I’ve never been good about telling people upfront. I’d like to say I just didn’t say anything until I had to because I knew you’d be totally fine with it, which, deep down, I know you will be, but that doesn’t really matter: it’s still terrifying. As you and I both know, I’m kind of a coward,” he rambles, his eyebrows furrowing in sheepishness. Before he can add any more to the one-sided conversation or fully remove his shirt, Shimura smiles, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

 

“Arayoshi, I’m the Head of Personnel. Whatever you tell me won’t be surprising.” 

 

Hatori blinks rather owlishly. Then, he laughs, a braying sort of thing that floods the tenseness and apprehension from his body. “Right. Should’ve known that, huh? Though, I’m flattered you took it upon yourself to gloss over my entire file.” There is no venom to his tone, only light-hearted humor, and Shimura’s blush deepens impossibly further. 

 

“I  _ did _ have a crush. Anyway, I already know, Arayoshi, and of course I don’t have a problem with it, If I did, we certainly wouldn’t… be  _ here _ right now.”

 

Hatori chuckles, his relief obvious and palpable. He strips himself without any further talk, taking the additional courtesy of removing his slacks. He slings both them and his shirt over Shimura’s own. “Good. That’s good. Again, I knew you really wouldn’t, but… I’m sure you understand.”

 

“I do. I promise.” Shimura only observes as Hatori resettles himself, inevitably enamored with the sight before him; all that could be reasonably expected of a hopeless sap. 

 

Hatori’s legs are spread, clasping either side of Shimura’s hips and thighs. His body is as beautifully plump and soft as the older man had ever pictured, hairless but for the silver enveloping his navel and thighs. He affirms then that Hatori had never been bleaching his hair, but had genuinely grayed prematurely. He barks a laugh soundlessly to himself before he once again grasps at the man’s thighs, delivering a bold squeeze. Hatori appears mostly unembarrassed, offering a wide grin in turn. Devilishly, he rolls his hips down, rocking just into Shimura’s swollen crotch. He deduces that the younger man may be attempting to somewhat distract himself from any self-consciousness, but is unable to formulate much beyond that realization before his breath is stolen from him with the roll of his hips. 

 

He hisses through his teeth, opening his mouth to properly vocalize his agonized gratitude. Instead, Hatori shoves two of his fingers against the older man’s tongue, cautiously pumping them toward the back of his throat. Shimura does not gag.

 

Involuntarily, Shimura’s eyebrows furrow, glancing up to his partner with unabashed lust and submission. He unquestioningly begins to suck, his tongue lolling dutifully over the pads of his fingers. He groans deep in his chest and jerks his hips up as Hatori presses his fingers in, nudging the back of his throat. His nails claw desperately at the younger man’s thighs in an attempt to draw him closer. Hatori cruelly rolls his hips again, his ass rubbing deliciously over the prominent bulge of Shimura’s cock, and his eyes briefly roll back into his skull.

 

“Suguru. Did you just cum, or did you fucking die?”

 

Shimura’s eyes snap open at the sound of his voice. He realizes, with mounting embarrassment, that he did, in fact, ruin his slacks. Hatori withdraws his fingers from his mouth and he nearly whines at the loss. 

 

“I’m not  _ that _ old, Arayoshi.” He grins almost shyly, his cheeks flushed a deep, humiliated red. 

 

Minding the quip with one of his own, Hatori giggles, “Jesus. If I’d known you liked fingers so damn much, I never would’ve tried to make you throw up that one time we nearly drank ourselves to death.”

 

The statement is absurdly hilarious to Shimura’s addled mind and he grins, belting out a throaty, mirthful laugh. Laughing comes easily to Hatori, so he contributes to the noise with his own, and Shimura decides then that he is in far too deep and enjoying every moment of it.


End file.
